


His Own Hell

by hanyou_elf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanyou_elf/pseuds/hanyou_elf





	His Own Hell

**Title:** His Own Hell  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Pairing:** Dean/OMC, implied Sam/OMC  
 **Genre:** Hurt, hurt/comfort, angst, death fic (not Sam or Dean)  
 **Summary:** Don't mess with that which belongs to Dean, including Sammy.  
 **Warnings:** Dark, dark Dean. He is NOT nice. Implied non-con and graphic non-con and non-major character death.  


 _We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell. ~Oscar Wilde_

The first thing that Dean recognizes when he wakes up is the pain in his shoulder. He knows that he should move, do something to relieve the tension, but he won’t. Because it’s a reminder of how badly he’s failed. Because Sammy’s gone to hide out at Bobby’s while Dean works to get revenge.

Fucking bastards.

Dean’s going to make them all pay. He’s going to kill them. He’s going to fuck their worlds up and then, he’s going to fucking send them to hell. He knows all kinds of fun things that make people just < i>want to talk to him, to spill their guts-- literally and figuratively. He knows how to make people fucking _confess._

He has to move though, he’s gotten two-- the weaker ones-- and it’s time for the last one. The man who decided that having their way with Sammy would be the best idea. The bastard who wanted to fuck their way into a point. He fucking hurt Sammy worse than anything else ever had. And probably ever will.

And Dean wants to be the one comforting him. He doesn’t want it to be fucking Bobby. But, he can’t let anyone else get this revenge. Especially since Dean could’ve saved Sam. He could’ve stopped it from happening. But he had had to get his rocks off. He had had to succumb to frustration and leave Sammy alone.

Fuck! He’s never going to fucking completely forgive himself. He can make amends, because he’s going to get revenge. But he’ll never forgive himself.

Dean rolls out of bed, curling his arm around his stomach to try to protect his shoulder for just a little longer, and stumbles into the shower. The porcelain is still a faint pink from the blood-- his and theirs. Dean has a spare duffel that he’ll toss when he’s done with his crusade. He'll use it to throw away the bloody towels and rags and clothing. No need to create any suspicion in his activities.

He’s got a bead on the next target. William Aaron Phillips, thirty-four, bouncer. Four priors: two attempted rapes, one assault with a deadly weapon, and one assault and battery. Address is 4952 Lorraine Avenue. He’s at home from five am to seven pm. Dean has ample time to get what he needs done while the bastard is at work.

And he has quite a bit planned. His necessary duffel is full of all the tools of the trade. The things that he mastered under Alistair’s tutelage. The things he’d wanted to give up so very much, but he won’t. Not anymore. Not for this. He has to get nasty and detailed and give the bastard the whole nine yards.

It’s nearly seven now, and Dean needs to get going. He finishes his shower quickly and towels dry before he leaves. He has to set up what he needs if he can’t make use of what Phillips already has. His shoulder is the least of his worries.

-.-.-.-

Dean is sitting in the living room, quietly waiting for the bastard to come home. His target is sloppy and loud. Stumbling with stomping steps into the small house. It’s disgusting how somebody worth so little can afford something so decent. So wholesome and all-American! He is going to repay Phillips for taking such care of Sammy.

His first gift of thanks: broken knee caps. He’d removed the bulb in Phillips' light and just waited. When the man stumbles in and shuts the door, Dean reacts. A crow bar serves his needs. He aims carefully and swings powerfully with his right arm, his left braced around his wrist. His body jerked at the jolt and his wounded left shoulder resumes its painful throbbing. But he doesn’t care. The pain is negligible.

“Th’fuck?!” Phillips shrieks as he falls to the floor, curling into himself.

“Hello,” Dean answers. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Who are you?”

“Remember the tall guy? The long floppy hair, puppy eyes, really big muscles?”

“What th’fuck you on about?”

“The tall man you and your buddies fucking _raped!_ ” Dean shouts at the prone man.

“Didn’t rape nobody. He begged for it!”

“You didn’t rape nobody?” Dean growls softly, consolingly almost.

“Nobody! Only sex I had was consented.”

“Funny. That’s not how Parker and Courmaine told the story. Begged me to understand, in fact.”

He tangles a hand in Phillips hair and pulls. The prone body struggles to follow the movement, and it only results in more and immediate pain for the fucker. Dean doesn’t care. He wants it to hurt. More than hurt, he wants to completely ruin the other man, to drag him into the dirt, humiliate and destroy him.

“Help!” Phillips begs. Screams.

“Nobody’s gonna fuckin’help you. You’re a lowlife. Scum. And you’re goin’ta hell. And when you do,” Dean grins as he drops the man to the floor of his bedroom. “Watch out for Luka. He fucks you open no matter where he puts it in. And he likes to bite.”

Phillips struggles to claw his way out of the bedroom. He can’t get his feet to cooperate anymore. Dean watches dispassionately until Phillips gets to the hallway. Then, he grabs the man’s broken kneecaps. A shriek of pain and a convulsion later, Phillips lays pliant, curled into himself as he pants.

“Sorry, did that hurt?” Dean laughs. He kicks Phillips’ chest and drags the man to the bed. With a surge of adrenaline and rage fueled energy, he hefts the older man into the bed and forces him into the restraints.

“Let me go,” Phillips begs. “I didn’t do nothing!”

“See, the problem besides your being a fucking rapist, is that the last man you fucked, that was my brother. Turns out, I’m not into finding him in an alley bleeding and covered in your fuckin’ spunk,” Dean growls darkly. His voice is a dangerous and tight cord of tension as he circles Phillips’ prone form.

The bastard had a head board, so the handcuffs were placed there. At the other end though, Dean had to use the restraints that fit under the legs of the bed’s support. Straps that will hold his feet still and prohibit movement. He won’t get very far.

“Now, you’re going to make payments for hurting him. How many times did you bite him?” Dean asks.

“He wanted it rough!” Phillips practically sobs as he fights the handcuffs.

“Not what I asked,” Dean shrugs. He looks almost apologetic as he lifts the crowbar in his good hand and swings it against Phillips’s ankles. The man’s body arches against the pain and he screams. “Now,” Dean says again loudly, over the sound of his screaming. “How. Many. Times. Did. You. Bite. Him?”

“S-seven,” Phillips pants as he sobs.

“Very good,” Dean answers. He lays the crowbar on the bed and steps to Phillips’ head. He punches hard against Phillips’ jaw, a bruising hit that reddens the skin immediately. “One.” He repeats the action, six more times until Phillips’ mouth is bloodied and there is actually an impression of teeth on his hand.

“Please,” Phillips’ begs through a clogged nose and filled mouth. “Please, stop.”

“How many times did you fuck him? You used him pretty good, huh?”

“Tw-twice.”

“Who went first?” Dean asks with a weird anticipation in his voice. His right, bruised hand trails over Phillips’ body and stops on his hip. “Who broke the boy in?”

“M-Me,” Phillips’ admits sobbingly.

“Very good. Honesty helps a little. But not much,” Dean grins as he drops his full weight elbow first into Phillips’ dick.

Dean watches impassively as Phillips writhes fruitlessly on the bed. His body twists as he struggles with trying to not gag. Dean steps in after a few long minutes of retching. No use in having the man choke to death before he finishes with him. He rolls him as far as possible onto his side, and when Phillips is done throwing up, Dean punches him again in the jaw with a sneered _weak._

“Just a little more,” Dean promises. He ignores the man’s pitiful and desperate pleas as he opens Phillips' jeans. He pulls them and his boxers down just enough for his purposes. “Just a little more.”

Phillips begs and sobs and pleads. And Dean ignores him. He leaves the man pleading for some mercy as he retrieves the piece of his punishment. It is a vibrator. It’s not thick enough to be of legitimate length, but dry it’ll be more than enough to meet his goal.

“This is for Sammy,” Dean growls.

He ignores the screaming in his shoulder as he lifts Phillips' legs and thrusts the toy home. He doesn’t give the man time to adjust before he starts to move it. A punishing rhythm, pushing it into the man and dragging it hard out of his body. He wraps his free hand’s numb fingers around the flaccid length of his hateful dick and squeezes painfully tight. The toy doesn’t want to move easily within the too tight channel, but Dean doesn’t care. He wants it to hurt.

Phillips sobs and writhes and begs. And Dean ignores him.

When he’s satisfied that Phillips has suffered enough, he jabs the toy deep into his body and steps back. Phillips lays there, pliant and broken and heaving, and Dean smiles.

He pulls the knife in his boot free and jabs the perfectly sharpened blade into the man's stomach. It is quick work to carve Luka’s sigils through flesh and cloth. Afterward, as an almost aside, he drags the blade across Phillips' throat.

Satisfied, Dean wipes the blade on Phillips' ruined shirt and leaves him there. Lying in his filth, just like he’d left Sammy.  


-.-.-.-

  
When Dean gets back to Bobby’s, the older man is visibly relieved to see him. Dean leaves everything in the Impala and walks purposefully into the small home. It has always been a place of refuge, a home for them when nothing else would be. He knew that sending Sammy here would be a comfort to him, but he’s left Sammy alone for too long. He hadn't wanted to, but he couldn't drag Sammy along on this bloody crusade.

“He’s in the shower. Again.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean sighs softly. He claps the older man on his shoulder and stalks up the stairs to the private bedroom and bathroom Bobby’d given them when they were younger.

Bobby’s the safest place he’s known. He only wanted to protect his brother and sending him to Bobby’s really had been the best option. But he’s afraid of what it might’ve done to Sammy. He hopes that he hasn’t convinced himself that Dean doesn’t want him around anymore.

Dean doesn’t let these things change the way he reacts to his little brother. He drops his jacket and toes off his boots and socks before he strolls into the bathroom. “Sammy?”

“Dean?”

“What’re you doin,’ Sasquatch?”

“Dirty. Taking a shower.”

“You’re okay, Sammy,” Dean says softly. He knocks a fist against the wall outside the stall. “How long you been in there?”

“Not long,” Sammy answers, but Dean can hear the lie. His voice is trembling, his pitch higher than normal. It’s not normal. And Dean needs to fix this. He grabs a towel, one of Bobby’s few luxuries and reaches in to turn the shower off.

“Come on,” Dean demands softly. He unfolds the towel and holds it wide, just like he’d done when Sammy was younger, innocent. When Dean had cared for him completely.

Sammy pushes the shower curtain to the side and stands there, his head bowed, his arms at his side. He looks completely defeated and Dean wants to cry for him. He doesn’t though. He knows that it’s the last thing that Sammy needs. He needs familiarity.

“You’re safe, Sammy,” Dean murmurs as he wraps the towel tight around his waist. He drags his brother close in. “I’ve got you, Sammy,” Dean promises.

“You can’t…” Sammy whispers against Dean’s shoulder. He shivers in Dean’s arms and it’s almost more than Dean can take. He wants to protect Sammy from anything, from< i>everything. But he can’t, because Sammy is a person, and he’s got his own ideals and his own thoughts and his own will.

“I took care of this, Sammy,” Dean promises.

“Permanently?”

“Permanently. All three of them. You don’t have to worry about them again. At all.”

“Dean,” Sammy sobs. He shudders in Dean’s arms and burrows deep into his brother.

It’ll be a long time before Sammy is himself again but Dean can be patient. “It’s alright Sammy, I got you.”


End file.
